


Synchonicity

by amireal, seperis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-20
Updated: 2005-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How long have we been walking?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchonicity

**Author's Note:**

> Amireal: So apparently, Jenn and I are the antichrist. Or the coming of the apocalypse or something equally cool. And Jenn has nothing to add, as shock commenced soon after completion. Thanks to cjandre for betaing. We know it was a terrible burden, what with the 10,000 words of porn and all.

Rodney sighs dramatically. "Bored."

"White washed?" John says, not a trace of pity evident in his voice.

"Sooo boooored," Rodney sighs again. "Seriously, I think my brain cells are committing suicide here."

For the first time in his life, Rodney starts to long for shooting and running. Kicking at the perfectly smooth carpet of green grass that stretches in disturbingly perfect waves toward a far off expanse of bright, perfectly shaped trees, Rodney considers the idea that John's time on The (Other) Most Boring Planet Ever had been spent in a form of low-grade insanity. John's been eyeing perfect stalks of wheat blowing around their feet with acquisitive eyes.

He watches John reach again and finally loses it, because if something on this planet doesn't *happen* Rodney may be the first person ever to have a stroke from *boredom*. "For gods sake," Rodney says, "Just pick one already! I'm sure they're all longing for an end to their horribly exciting life of blowing in the wind!" 

John looks at him like he's simultaneously had the best idea ever and has tied his jacket to his head and proclaimed himself King of the Fibers That Don't Appear in Nature. 

"Thanks Rodney," he drawls, "I think I might." And he does, long fingers brushing across their tops, dragging them in the opposite direction of the barely there wind before he focuses on one in particular for reasons Rodney can't begin to deduce. Maybe the fuzzy top resembles some long lost household pet. 

Of course, once acquired, John carefully places the stem in his mouth and chews thoughtfully, discovering all the ways of moving it around, taking it out at random intervals to draw circles in the air and gesturing like an hyperactive conductor. Rodney thinks that maybe he shouldn't have spoken up at all. Because first off all: John's *mouth*, from the ground to his *mouth*. Did sanitary mean *nothing* to this man? And also... John's mouth. Rodney swallows past his suddenly dry throat and turns his head away, determined to find something interesting on the patch of ground four feet to the right.

"How long have we been walking?" Rodney asks as John finds and discards his third wheat--thing. Too short, too long, too gold, too *something*, every time, and Rodney's not saying anything only because this is pretty much his only source of entertainment right now.

"Two hours," John says, looking at a newly discovered stalk like a jeweler with a suspicious gem. It's just *weird*.

"And those trees," Rodney points; John takes time from his busy schedule to glance up. "Those look closer to you?" Because two hours, one endless valley, and Rodney's beginning to think (hope) this whole thing is an evil alien plot. Please God, let this be an evil alien plot.

John tilts his head in that way that usually signals shoot and run. Then, slowly, God, so slowly, he nods. "Yes, I think they do."

Rodney squints at John and then back at the mountains and then back at John. Something funny is going on here. Because their radios have been oddly silent and John is looking ready to keep ambling on without a care in the world and weren't they supposed to check in at some point? Or someone check in on them? Rodney is suddenly very sure they were waiting for something, or someone.

He looks at his watch and is immediately assured that it hasn't really been that long, but three steps later he can't remember the numbers, no matter how hard he thinks. "Wait." Rodney says carefully. "You're really not bored?" Because John Sheppard gets bored the way a five year old gets bored sometimes.

John shrugs, again, very slowly. "Easy hike, good company, what's there to be bored about?"

"Hiking is hardly the height of scintillating--- wait," Rodney looks at John harder. "Good company, really?"

John smiles again, slow as warm honey, which is so not what he needs to be thinking about right now. Damn all lit professors and required poetry courses anyway. 

"Colonel," he says, and oh God, he's doing it too, drawled out vowels and low consonants, like something out of a Tennessee Williams play by way of the midwest. "Sheppard. Something is wrong."

John gives him an almost-curious look. "Wrong?"

"In no universe, in no timeline, and in fact, no *hallucination* has anyone, ever, anywhere, considered me good company." Forcing himself to a stop, Rodney waits as Sheppard comes to a slow, slow halt.

Did John's hips always move like that?

Wrong thought. Wrong wrong wrong.

"Rodney?"

"Something," and now Rodney finds it hard to even express the idea, "isn't." he has to clench his fists tightly, making his nonexistent nails dig into his palm. "Right."

John takes a swaying step towards him, loose limbed and easy. "Really?" 

All he can think about for a long second and a half is how flexible John has to be to walk like that without dislocating something. "I am not good company," Rodney argues again; it's easier when he doesn't try to deal with whatever it is outright. "I don't even get along with myself." Wrong, he thinks in his head. The serenity of the world around him, the birds chirping and light breeze that brings hauntingly wonderful smells with it, including a whiff of John that he'd never really noticed before and now can't get out of his head. 

"Apparently," John shifts his weight to one hip, "I am not just 'anyone'."

And that, in a nutshell, is the problem with this scenario. Above and beyond John suddenly smelling so good, the perfect bowl of the valley, and the scenic trees and purple mountains, hazy in the distance. "Question--why are we here?"

John pauses then, if a slow and thoughtful stop a few inches away can even be *called* a pause, before cocking his head. "Looking." The dark eyebrows draw together, giving John the familiar look of a man who sees something that needs shooting. Rodney almost cries with happiness. "We're looking for something."

"Right," Rodney says, but John's expression melts into calm acceptance and God help them, bending over, *right there in front of Rodney*, to pick up one of an endless number of stalks of straw. "Wait. Sheppard. We're looking for something?"

Kind of?

John straightens, nodding lazily. "Yes. We're looking for something."

"What?" Rodney asks, trying desperately to cling to what he knows. The scientific method, the diagram from when he was ten years old dances in his head. All colors and signs and far too simple to really hold true. 

"What, what?" John asks, slowly sucking on his new prize, lips pursing gently.

Rodney pinches his thigh; the pain helps him focus on something other than wet, pink lips. "What are we looking for?" The words want to stick in his throat. 

"I dunno, Rodney," John says and this time, the slowness isn't that weird replay action slow, but John's own brand of sarcasm. "You didn't tell me, you just," he leans forward, well into Rodney's space, "looked at your scanner thing and jumped up and down excitedly."

Something--the scanner, spikes, the slow, crawling haze of pale white air ghosting past their faces, heat crawling up his spine, John saying to Teyla and Ronon, okay, but we're only waiting an hour, and Rodney saying, fine, whatever, but I need that equipment, so hurry

"This isn't a valley," Rodney says, fighting the words out between teeth that try to crack every one before he can say it. "It was hot." With frightening chances of UV exposure and slow death by skin cancer.

A cool breeze wafts past him, smelling of spring flowers and fresh trees, and Rodney realizes that he hasn't sneezed even *once*.

"Rodney?"

Rodney turns his head, dark hair brushing against his cheek, John bent just enough to peer into his face and kiss, maybe--kiss, definitely, because Rodney's allergic to everything and hence, has never participated in any kind of outdoor sex. He wonders if John ever has.

Kiss, yes. Touch, yes. Stop, God no, God, no, no...

"Wait," and peeling himself off John Sheppard is the hardest thing he's ever done--even his skin hates him, only giving him room to breathe, not room to think, fingers clinging. "We--it's hot. It's supposed to be *hot*. There was--we--"

Belatedly, Rodney realizes his fingers, twisted in John's hair, have tightened, pulling him in again, and he can taste John's pleased smile.

It's the best kiss ever, John's lips fit his perfectly, and there's a feeling of rightness that settles over Rodney; even the press of his flack vest disappears into it all and joins to become part of the wrong--no, no this is wrong.

"Stop," Rodney muffles into the kiss. "No." He wrenches away, but he's uncoordinated and slow and he can't seem to get all of himself to work at once, so his hands are still twisting in John's hair and his body can't seem to pull far enough away before John just moves to a new target. Hot breath on his neck, Rodney's eyes begin to flutter shut, because it's like that spot under his jaw is wired. Wired and electrified and made for John's tongue.

"Why?" John asks, stopping long enough to breath into Rodney's skin. "We can finish looking later."

Later, yes. Later sounds good.

The grass, it turns out, is very, very soft.

In the honey-warm patch of sunlight and soft air, Rodney watches John peel off his vest, like something out of a movie that should never, ever make theatres due to the rating. And because no one else, no one, should ever be allowed to see John like this, possibly including Rodney.

Stretching out, Rodney watches through half-closed eyes as John tucks the vest under Rodney's head, then leans down again, one hand braced above his shoulder, the other cupping his jaw. John kisses slow and easy, tongue warm and soft, tracing his lips with the tip before lazily circling inside, all patient languor and gentle carelessness. When John's mouth settles on his throat, Rodney sighs, stroking his fingers through the dark hair.

"We are so going to die."

John sighs against his skin, wrapping around him so gently it makes Rodney's head spin. 

"Orgasm," John murmurs, like a casual walk through 16th century literature isn't completely incongruous with him slowly slipping his hands under Rodney's shirt. "Little death."

It's a losing battle; one of Rodney's hands finds itself pressing tightly against warm skin, and it's so intoxicating that he can't stop moving his fingers in slow circles. He actually feels the loss when John pulls away enough to slide off his jacket and then moves to take care of Rodney's vest and jacket.

They sink together easily after that, wrapping around each other like vines, soft and firm and perfect and Rodney can feel each individual blade of grass press against his cheek, the lazy ruffle of his hair from the breeze.

Rodney has no idea how long they make out like that, all soft mouths and careful kisses, slow hands never moving past waists, weirdly chaste and indecently innocent, in a way that Rodney hasn't been since puberty.

Whatever this is, however it's doing it, even them *knowing*, doesn't change the fact that Rodney's hands are up the back of John's shirt, smoothing strangely soft skin with his palms, learning every scar by touch with the tips of his fingers. He's never felt so--light. Free. Empty. *Clean*.

Lazily, he slides his fingers down John's back, putting on just enough pressure for John to feel it.

John murmurs something against his throat that sounds encouraging, so Rodney does it again, eyes opening on golden air and the perfect robin's egg blue sky.

"No insects," he hears himself murmur, nuzzling John's hair before stealing another lazy kiss. "There are--no insects."

"I know," John says, mouthing Rodney's skin, a gentle trail of warm, wet touches that reach for Rodney's mouth again. Slow and deep for long moments until John pulls away, a hand reaching for Rodney's face, thumb leisurely tracing over his cheekbone. "It's perfect."

Something stutters alarmingly in Rodney's chest, because John's wide eyes are staring at his softly, and it's a look that just flays him open. "No," Rodney says, even as his own hand reaches up to cup John's face, his own thumb mirroring John's mesmerizing caress. "Nothing is perfect."

They kiss, hands sliding away and down and back and Rodney has no idea where he ends and John begins. 

He thinks maybe he's wrong, because this is perfection, the press of John perfect next to him, warm and breathing deeply, making small sounds that just distract him from his own happy sighs. Perfection is John's hands sliding up his sides; it's his fingers pressing gently into muscle; it's pleasure at his touch, and Rodney can't handle any more perfection.

Sliding John onto his back, Rodney presses slow, open mouthed kisses to his collar, pulling the edge of his shirt out of the way, and why bother with shirts, anyway? He has no idea.

"Yeah," John murmurs when Rodney coaxes him up, stripping the black cotton away, hands sliding up Rodney's sides to do the same, the crumpled material joining the pile growing beside him. Then John lies back down, and Rodney just looks for a minute, because in this galaxy, you don't get moments like this, time crawling like molasses and nothing to do but watch.

John's hands reach for him, closing gently over his hips, slide up and around and pull them together. Soft skin and hair presses against Rodney's stomach. Muscle that should be hard is instead lush and giving, and it's like John's entire body just greets him and wraps around him as Rodney settles back into place.

Skin against skin, rubbing against him, just adds to the scenery. Gliding fluidly, they shift against each other, legs sliding into place effortlessly, John's wrapping a calf around him, pulling him close, and it's all just inevitable and perfect.

Perfect.

Rodney's hands stutter on John's back and something scrapes at the edges of his mind, but John's lips move to his ear, sucking at the same time as his leg tightens just a bit more. Sharp, intense pleasure rocks through Rodney, and the thought is gone as quickly as it came.

"Looking," Rodney murmurs when John's teeth press against the curve of his ear, worrying the soft flesh just enough to make him shiver. "We were looking."

"For something," John agrees. Warm sunlight drenches Rodney's back, hazing John in a golden glow, soft grass under his knees--this couldn't be more perfect if he'd created it himself. "Oh." Rodney buries his mouth in the offered throat, warm soft skin, the smell, the *taste*, thought lost.

One of John's hands rests on his waist, fingers pressing below the belt, and Rodney's breath stutters in his throat. "John," he whispers, reaching down, tangling the metal tags through his fingers, enough to bring him John's mouth again. "Power source," he manage to breathe, then wonders why the hell he even *cares*. "We were looking--"

"Readings," John murmurs against his lips. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Rodney whispers back before indulging in another languid kiss. "Readings." His hand slides down past the small of John's back, his fingertips brushing under the waistband of John's pants.

Slow and sweet, they rock together, gentle waves of pleasure sliding up Rodney's spine. John pulls him closer, his fingers pushing further, kneading into tense muscle, each press releasing tingles of warmth that pool in the pit of his stomach. "We should--" John leans in and sucks gently on one of Rodney's nipples, stealing Rodney's train of thought.

"We should," John agrees even though Rodney muzzily thinks that he knows very well that's not what Rodney was going to say. "Definitely." John says again.

Rolling on his side, Rodney reaches for John's belt, thigh holster pressing against his cock, hard and jarring, releasing him into a second of clear thought.

Thought. His hand is already down John's boxers, stroking over his stomach, and in no universe does John Sheppard think he's good company and want to-- "John. Where is--" he has to stop, John's so close, licking slowly up his throat with studied, broad strokes of his tongue. "The jumper."

John smiles lazily up at him, pushing his cloth covered cock into Rodney's hand. And there goes thought.

Rodney unstraps the thigh holster, getting John's pants down enough to see what he's touching. Cock, already red and leaking, and Rodney runs a thumb over the head makes John makes a sound like a cat, pushing into Rodney's fingers, free hand reaching down for the top of Rodney's pants. "Over--there," John murmurs, licking up Rodney's chin and they're kissing again, God, they could do this forever, they *have* been doing this forever. When John's hand slides down his cock, Rodney can't imagine there could ever be a time they weren't doing this.

Before is just a hazy memory, boring and pleasureless compared to this, right now, hand on his cock, solid and perfect, lazily stroking with a shivering twist at the end. Rodney's own hand curled easily around John, making John gasp, a fluid arch of his back, eyes fluttering closed.

"John," Rodney says even as he leans in for another kiss. "We should--" another kiss, "go to--" a flick of John's thumb along the head of Rodney's cock, "the jumper." He melts into yet another in a stream of never ending kisses, John's wonderful mouth, hot and sweet against his.

"Later," John says, rolling them over until Rodney's back is pressed into the grass, his head still cushioned perfectly against John's vest. "I promise." Their bodies press together as John lays on top of him, arranging them easily so that their hands are free to roam and stroke and pet. Rodney's cock finds the perfect groove against John's hipbone, supple and velvety against him. They rock against each other and it all doubles again, white and fuzzy under Rodney's eyes, and he can't imagine anything ever feeling better than this.

This--this is perfect.

"John," he murmurs, mouth catching John's in another slow kiss, tasting him, wanting to come just like this--tongue in John's mouth, rubbing off on John's perfect body, everything in the universe held in suspension around them, nothing else *existing*--

"Fumes," Rodney whispers, pressing his lips to John's pulse point, beating against his lips faster every second. "We--were supposed to--fumes."

"Mmm," John murmurs, but whether to the words or the touch, Rodney has no idea. Rodney takes the skin gently between his teeth, bearing down just enough to feel John shiver against him. So *good*. "Rodney, please--"

"Yeah," he says, tightening his leg around John's thigh, closing his eyes and relaxing back on the grass, John's hand cupping his cheek while his lips moving lazily over his shoulder. "Yes. There."

Their rocking deepens, and Rodney shudders at the feeling of John against him. John's hands move, one of them pinning his hip down carefully, changing the angle just enough to make Rodney's eyes flutter closed because it's *that* good. He feels a hand stroke at his cheek and Rodney forces his eyes open again. John's looking down at him, flushed and open and so goddamned tender, and it sends another shock of pleasure through Rodney.

"Rodney," John's says, voice cracking slightly. "Rodney" he nuzzles Rodney's neck softly. "Perfect," he says even more brokenly before swooping down for another kiss, mouth open, tongue deep inside, stroking in time with his thrusts.

Perfect, amazing bits of movement that make Rodney gasp louder with each one, cling tighter, push harder. They're holding each other so tightly Rodney's fingers are tingling and he knows it should hurt somewhere, but it doesn't, it just feels so good. 

With a softly indrawn breath, Rodney feels John come, wet and warm between them, hazel eyes wide and dark and surprised, staring down at Rodney like he's seeing God, or a new puddlejumper with hyperdrive. Pulling him down, Rodney kisses him, pooled warmth flaring into heat, sliding down his spine like hot wax, burying himself in John's mouth when he comes.

It goes on forever, golden waves of uncomplicated pleasure consuming body and mind, kissing through it with languid heat, and slowly, so slowly, it slips away, leaving soft afterglow bathing them both.

John pulls his mouth away with a wet sound that can still make Rodney twitch. "Jumper," he whispers, and Rodney nods, yes.

They roll to their sides and start to peel away from each other; Rodney has to resist the urge to drag John back against him. John's hands skim over him as they separate and fall to their backs, breathing hard. Rodney aches with the loss and it take him several deep breaths to remember what he has to do next.

With unsteady hands he works his boxers and pants back up, making a face at the mess on his stomach, resisting the urge to run his fingers through it in awe. He wants to roll back over, pull John to him, and start all over, because now he's cold, and he knows John is warm. Wonderfully warm.

He sits up and gets to his knees next to John, who's in front of the small pile of their discarded clothing, fabric tangled tightly. Their hands meet as they both reach at the same time and they both sport twin gasps of muted pleasure when they do, and at least now he's not so cold and empty and hollow.

"You know," John says, careful and slow, like each word has to be checked for quality before use, "for a planet bent on our deaths? Not too bad."

Rodney nods, twitching when John's index finger makes an unscheduled slide up his wrist, clamping down on the need to touch back. "Could be worse. Just once," he says, forcing out the words through the promise of warm, sweet delight that John's body offers, so close they should be touching. John shifts away to pull on his vest and Rodney finds himself leaning toward him like a flower.

"Once?"

Right, he was talking. "Couldn't it be bent on something else?"

John pauses, like he has to think about it, before shrugging, reaching for the thigh holster and sliding on his belt with tiny shimmies of his hips that do nothing for Rodney's hand-eye coordination. A few long seconds later, they're both once again important expedition members with a mission.

"Okay, so," John says, looking around. "How do we get out of a hallucination anyway?"

Well, damn.

"I've got nothing," Rodney says slowly. Thinking through the haze of heat and molasses is so hard, and John is right there and he's soft in comparison. Easy and simple and Rodney's never wanted to do the easy and simple thing more in his life than at this very moment. "The jumper?" He guesses.

John shrugs slowly and nods. "Okay, yeah, at least we'll be doing something other than" He trails off, his eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. 

Rodney has to fight the impulse to touch one perfectly pink cheek. He nods, yes movement, concentrate on something other than John and his body and slowly growing disconnect he feels the longer they sit there thinking about not touching, a grind starting in his stomach that's discomfort.

Rodney has to think about it, and halfway through, he notices his hand creeping toward John's thigh. Jerking back, he stumbles to his feet, a wave of nausea cutting through the sweetness.

Okay, that? Helps. 

"Looks like it's trying something else now," John says, and Rodney looks up to see a decidedly greenish tinge to the pale skin. It really, really shouldn't be attractive.

Turning in a slow circle, Rodney looks around. Green, green, green. "John, you have the remote for the jumper?"

John fumbles at his pocket before pulling it out, looking at Rodney expectantly, like he has an actual plan here. "Got it."

Right, right. "Can you activate the emergency beacon from here?"

John blinks slowly, then glances off into the distance.

"Yeah," John says thickly, not looking any less ethereal and sick all at once, "think so."

Rodney nods and watches John's hand fumble around with it, his long fingers moving clumsily, and still Rodney finds that looking really appealing. "Well?"

"Trying." John says, "trying." He closes his eyes, going pale as porcelain, tongue peeking out from his mouth.

Fingers reaching out, Rodney presses two carefully against John's exposed wrist, smooth skin for a moment overtaking every thought and he has to hold on tightly to remember not to just sink all the way back into it. "Activate the beacon." Rodney whispers hoarsely.

John's fingers are suddenly coordinated, working the control like it's Rodney, finding the right combination of buttons without any effort at all and then he's wrapping his free hand around Rodney's palms pressing close, fingers entwined.

"Now we just have to find the jumper."

Rodney forces his attention from callused fingers to look up.

"Ask yourself, how do we get into these situations?" John looks better though, less green, more natural, weirdly big-eyed and soft--post-coital, Rodney realizes abruptly, and suddenly hates this world so much, because this is something he'd want to see, enjoy, touch and taste: John at his most relaxed, most defenseless. But he *can't*.

"Because we whine at Elizabeth," John says, making no effort to pull away. "Because--"

They sulk. Rodney does it loudly; John does it silently and with passive aggressive malice aforethought, punctuated by big, sad eyes and drooping hair. It's weirdly effective, in that Rodney's been talked into doing insane things when John looks like that, so no *wonder* Elizabeth falls for it. Every. Time.

"If we get close enough, we should be able to--" Rodney waves his free hand, "activate it. If we can get the back down--"

"Do the words 'needle in a haystack' mean anything to you?" John says, but he looks interested.

"More like a needle in one of twelve possible haystacks," Rodney corrects looking around and feeling John's fingers moving against his more than he should.

"Let's go that way," John murmurs already swaying gently towards Rodney before jerking and shaking his head. "Away from where we were going."

Away from the perfect skyline of trees, okay, that might be a good idea. "Right, so," they almost lean in again when Rodney shakes out of it first. "Walk, right?"

"Right." John nods tightly and takes a tentative step, pulling Rodney with him, not making any effort to release his hand.

They walk slowly, practically weaving as they gravitate towards and away from each other, and Rodney finds he has to concentrate on the warm pressure John's hand makes on his, the careful swirl of fingers they allow themselves every couple of seconds. Rodney feels so very strange, outside of himself and wrong, but John's hand is a small island of right he can cling to tightly. 

Above them, the sky begins to darken. As a message, it's not subtle, and Rodney watches John tilt his head back, revealing a smooth expanse of throat. When he looks at Rodney again, he grins. "Think it's getting grumpy?"

Rodney runs his thumb along John's palm in answer--a mistake, because John's eyes darken, pupil dilated, black and hungry. Rodney catches himself before he closes the inches between them. "Jumper," he hears himself say distractedly, thinking of the bench inside, the way he could make John pilot them while he kneels between his feet, suck him off, see if--

Rodney fumbles his radio off, staring at it. "Jumper. We should be able to hear the emergency klaxon."

"Hallucination?" John says, but he looks interested. Rodney drops John's hand, and almost instantly, the valley seems colder. 

"Oh God, stop that," he says, going down on his knees. God, he hates this planet. "And you. Get down here and touch me."

He looks up just in time to see John's smirk and wonders when that, too, became sexy, not annoying. "And give me your knife. We don't have to hear it. The radio just needs to be able to triangulate it and lead us there."

John pulls out his knife, unsheathing it slowly and Rodney is very disturbed by how hot the action is. He hands it over and their fingers touch briefly and Rodney flashes hot then cold. "God, I can't think like this." 

Next to him, John settles on his knees, a hand coming to Rodney's shoulder, kneading carefully. "This is better?" John asks slowly, eyes glazing over again.

Heat sears through Rodney's shirt, touch so sweet Rodney moans even as he works the cover off the transmitter. "Not really no." He whispers, biting his lips hard even as John's fingers trace small circles on his shoulder. "Yes."

Wires. He needs to cross some wires, nothing too hard. Except he can feel the wall of heat that John's body represents and each swirl of fingers has him fighting to keep his eyes open, and all Rodney wants to do is lean in and find John's soft, lush lips again. 

It's such a good thing he's fucking *brilliant*, or he'd never be able to pull this off. A few adjustments, the tip of John's knife stripping tiny cables, and Rodney sits back, staring at the mess of wires in his hand that they have no way to test, since they can't hear a fucking *thing*.

"Okay," Rodney says breathlessly, taking John's hand and turning it over, "between two genes, we should be able to--" He stops, catching his breath at the gentle slope of John's shoulder, fingers shaking as he places the radio in John's palm. "You should be able to--sense it."

"Sense it?" John gives him a blank look.

Even that's hot, hot enough that Rodney can't stop himself leaning close, John's lips warm and welcoming and promising more playtime on the soft grass. No no no. Pilot's seat. That. Yes. Sex in the seat. Somehow. "It's Ancient tech. It has a--you have to have felt it. This--"

"Hum. Yeah. Hmm." John stares at the transmitter, then closes his eyes. After a second, they come open, wide and startled. "Left. It feels--left."

They head left, the transmitter tight between their hands, the casing digging into his palm even as John's fingers remind of the pleasing things they could be doing with small shivers down his spine. 

After a little ways they stop, John's hand tightening momentarily and robbing them both of breath. "What?" Rodney asks, impatient. Sex in the jumper is the only thing he can focus on that lets him keep going and stopping keeps him from it.

John's eyes are closed, his head tilting upwards, the long line of his neck open to the air, cool and pale and imperfect. Small marks are starting to show where Rodney remembers licking and nipping and sucking. John gasps as Rodney's fingers trace the perfect teeth marks where shoulder meets neck.

"This way," John pulls them, still to the left, but angle adjusted slightly.

It's painfully slow, almost imperceptible progress, stopping every so often for John to course correct, bringing their bodies too close, and Rodney catches himself panting on the third stop, so turned on he can hardly think of anything but John's untucked shirt and the expanse of tanned skin revealed whenever he bends over.

So not what he needs to be thinking about.

The subliminal call of the jumper holds John though, and it figures, Rodney thinks sourly, that flying is the one thing that could distract John from sex. Unfortunately, Rodney doesn't have a ZPM to play with to keep him occupied. So he's staring at John.

"Are we any closer?" Rodney says, tearing his attention from John's throat to look at their hands, still clasped around the radio. John frowns, eyes distant, and then begins to nod warily.

"Really close. Almost--" With his other hand, he takes out the remote and pushes down.

Something bumps Rodney's foot.

John smiles down at the totally ordinary grass in uncomplicated delight. "Right there."

Rodney reaches out, and in the air he can feel the unique shape and texture of the jumper. Next to him John is still smiling, and Rodney wants to lick at it until John's lips open in pleasure.

John moves, passes behind him, practically rubs up on him as he goes past, pulling their entwined hands. Suddenly Rodney is walking on air, his steps bring him further away from the perfectly proportioned grass and he realizes they're walking up the ramp.

The world melts around them slowly, like watercolors dissolving in water it bleeds away in low drips. Outlines come into focus and Rodney sees the long bench in the rear compartment and feels John pressed tightly against his back. A muted clunk tells Rodney that John remembered to close the door. Rodney turns and they take two steps back, leaning onto the not quite upright back walls, pressing against each other. "Jumper," Rodney says, burying his nose in John's neck, licking along one of the darkening lines there.

"Jumper," John croaks, "Yes."

"We need to leave," Rodney mumbles, fitting his teeth over the earlier bite and pressing down, feeling John's shiver. It's reckless and scary and oh God, they need to *leave* but maybe later, maybe--

"Yeah," John murmurs, hands sliding over his ass, and that's not the way to *stop*, not the way at all. "Let me--"

Rodney jerks back, forcing his hands off John's hips, but their fingers still make contact, not quite willing for full withdrawal yet. "Atlantis. We can--there are *beds*--" And locking doors, and lube, and chocolate, and all of these things go together in amazing ways. So many, many amazing ways.

John pushes off the back, eyes slowly clearing, making his way to the pilot's seat, Rodney barely a step behind, running his fingernails up and down John's forearm. When John sits down, Rodney stares at those long legs and remembers what he'd been thinking earlier.

And if he crouches just a little...

Eyes closed, John pants harshly. "Rodney," he says, voice practically garbled. His hands grip the controls tightly, and the ship lights up around them, almost too brightly.

Rodney plasters himself against the back of the chair; he can't even imagine making it to the one on the other side of the console. "Can you fly?" he asks, because Rodney's having a tough time thinking about walking.

"Don't know," John forces out, his hand reaching back and dragging one of Rodney's to him, lacing them together. "I need both hands to fly, so this isn't going to work."

About three seconds from humping his way through the chair Rodney lets out a moan of frustration. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea." He thinks about crawling in with John, settling into the extra space in front of the console and he shudders just a bit.

Pulling his hand free--and never has anything in history been as hard as doing that--Rodney reaches for the skin on the back of John's neck. "You know-" he says slowly, trying to sound less like he's slowly dying of oxygen deprivation and more casual, "when I read the SGC reports about aliens making the teams--"

"The sex thing, yeah." John's voice sounds marginally more controlled. Which isn't saying much.

"Did you believe it or did you think they were lying to get out of trouble for random outdoor group sex on alien planets?"

John snorts, turning the jumper toward the gate. "Lying through their teeth."

Reaching over, Rodney dials the gate address with his free hand, tracing his nails over the soft skin just below John's hairline on the back of his neck. "Apparently, not so much." They can't see the gate, but John trusts the jumper, and Rodney trusts John, so he assumes, by their forward momentum, that they won't be crashing into the sides or anything. "I'm not looking forward to writing this report," Rodney says, running his now free hand through John's hair.

John leans into the touch, and when Rodney looks down, he sees a smile.

He gives in, finally, *finally* touching those lips again, John twists under him, spinning the chair enough so that Rodney isn't leaning over the side, twisting so that he doesn't sit on the DHD. Wet and hot greets him, welcoming in ways he's never felt before and Rodney has to stop himself from climbing in, pushing his legs into the seat of the chair, has to stop from wrapping them up completely again.

"Send the code," John murmurs into his ear before nibbling softly. He gasps as Rodney runs a hand down John's chest, under his vest, which is now mysteriously unzipped, Rodney's fingers unerringly homing in on one already peaked nipple.

"What?" Rodney asks slowly, not following.

"Or we go squish," John says taking Rodney's hand moving it towards the transmitter.

Right, the shield. He turns enough so that John's neck and lips and face aren't in his line of sight. With John's hands still running up and down his sides, he manages to send his code, hearing the gatetech on the other side tinny in his ear. He doesn't bother to respond, because he's already collapsing into John's lap.

Marines, he thinks distantly when John's hands slide down the back of his mysteriously unfastened pants. Elizabeth, he thinks, sucking on John's tongue and jerking his shirt up. Autopilot, he says. Wait.

"What?" John says, mouth red and swollen, licking like he's looking for Rodney's taste.

"Hangar," he says, and John pulls a hand from his pants, reaching around to touch something on the panel before pressing into the center of Rodney's back, head tilted up to mouth Rodney's collar. "And lock the jumper."

"Elizabeth will worry," John says into his throat, then reaches to key his radio. "Elizabeth, we're back, give us five minutes, tell--God--tell Carson to meet us in the hangar bay. Alone. Possible--contamination."

Rodney wants so badly, John's hands are so warm, and everything they do is perfect again. He reaches under John's falling shirt, feeling the scrape of hair and skin against his palm. "We need to stop," he says even as he leans in, his thighs stretching across John's.

"Yeah," John's eyes have gone beyond glassy, and they blink slowly at Rodney. He nods, his hands drawing down Rodney's sides before leaving the confines of his shirt.

"The bench," Rodney says, another delicious shudder running through him as he slides off, followed by a hollow ache. John reaches out to fasten his pants, fingers running along the edge, leaving hot trails along his abdomen. When John is done, he leans in to kiss a trail across his stomach. Oh god does that not help. Rodney threads his fingers through John's hair, carding carefully. "Bench," he says, gently pulling until John's on his feet, "we have time, five minutes, we can--"

"Yeah." And like that, he's sitting on the bench, John kneeling between his legs, unfastening his pants with quick, agile fingers, and Rodney has just enough time to twist his fingers in the dark hair before John's got him out, swallowing him down.

"Oh God," and the only thing that would be better is if he could do this to John at the same time, palming the back of his neck, his shoulder, fingering the bruises blooming on John's throat, trying to breathe through the feel of John's amazing mouth, and God, Rodney'd known, known John would be good at this, he's good at everything he does.

"John," he murmurs, "God, yes, yes, please--" They have less than two minutes left, and he can feel it starting in the base of his spine. Rodney forces his eyes open, staring down at John, wanting to see every second of this; John's pretty mouth stretched wide around his cock, eyes closed, taking it like he can't imagine anything better in the world.

When the dark eyes open, sex-glazed, Rodney comes so hard he sees actual stars.

Still reeling, Rodney slides to his knees, trembling and dizzy, and John falls back in a boneless sprawl. Rodney's got John's cock out and in his mouth and is sucking it, all messy and wet, while John's gasping at the ceiling. Rodney's dick tries to come again when John gasps one last time and pours down his throat.

He can't hold himself up anymore so he collapses on top of John, momentarily lightheaded with the feel of John's entire body against his before rolling off.

 They're both still struggling with their clothes when Carson's voice comes over the radio.

"Rodney? Colonel? I was told you requested my presence?"

Tapping his headset, Rodney stifles a laugh. "Hey, Carson, you alone?"

John gets up first, offering a hand to Rodney, who takes it and is hauled up with surprising strength. John pulls him to his side and sits them both down on the bench, sides pressed together, hands clasped tight and fingers intertwined.

"I can be if it's really necessary," Carson's voice finally comes back over the speakers.

"It really is," Rodney answers, watching as John raises his eyebrows, smirk in place, then nods briskly and reaches to his left, hitting the release. Slumping into the long padded bench, Rodney takes a deep breath as John slouches back beside him, thigh brushing Rodney's thigh, loose and calm and looking so much like sex that Rodney's not sure he can stop himself from touching for another second.

Carson comes in warily, eyes bright, biohazard suit in place. "Something wrong?"

John's mouth twitches, arms crossed over his chest. "We've been--affected. By something. On that planet." 

"The fumes?"

Fumes. Oh God, the fumes. Rodney's eyes widen as John nods happily, then quickly shakes his head. "Besides those."

Carson starts unpacking his kit. "I hope this isn't your version of quarantine procedures," he says looking at them seriously.

Rodney shakes his head and so does John.

"No," John says, "I don't think we're--contagious." He's already listing to the side, towards Rodney, their shoulders brushing intermittently.

"At least," Rodney says, trying to keep himself from pressing back with enough force to bring their sides into full contact, "not the kind you're thinking of."

Carson is already scanning them with a critical eye. "Your vitals are all over the place."

"That makes sense," John nods slowly. "All things considered," he drawls, falling back into molasses time.

"Yes," Rodney agrees, his eyes drawn like magnets to John's neck, the one darkening mark perfectly balanced on the tendon.

Carson says nothing for long moments, frowning at the scanner in front of him before eventually putting it down and doing a visual inspection. Rodney knows exactly when those competent doctor's eyes spot the mottled skin on their necks and peeking out from the collars of their shirts. 

"Did some creature get a hold of you?"

John snickers softly, and Rodney can't help reaching for him, looping his fingers in John's belt, suddenly concentrated on finding skin, stroking his thumb carefully over the sharp jutting bone of his hip. 

Carson blinks, then flushes, snapping the scanner closed. "I--see."

"I think this could be a problem," John says, perfectly normal except for the fact he's leaning into Rodney's touch. "So infirmary? In a way not likely to have an audience?"

Carson blinks slowly. "Right, Colonel. Let's do that."

* * *

The medical exam somehow manages to be even less pleasant than usual. John's a miserable ball of Lieutenant Colonel a few feet away. He's stripped down to scrubs, every mark on his skin as good as a shout of complicity in activities that are not sanctioned by the US military in any way, shape, or form.

Carson flits between them like an amused vulture, clucking his tongue and having way too much fun with blood samples and scanners, and in general not paying the least bit of attention to the fact that Rodney's two seconds from going straight through him to get to John.

Maybe less, because as soon as Carson wanders off with their blood and assorted tissue, Rodney's off the bed, climbing into John's lap, needing contact so badly he almost gasps when he gets it; John's arms going around his waist with sliding up the back of his shirt. Pushing John back against the pillows, Rodney goes for the smooth skin of his throat, nausea creeping backward with a relief so sharp it makes him lightheaded.

"Beckett," John says halfheartedly, working a hand inside the scrub bottoms, which win for best clothing choice *ever*, giving Rodney all the access he needs with a simple push. "He's going to come back--"

"And there are--yes, right there--these wonderful patient confidentiality laws," Rodney answers distractedly as he licks John's mouth open.

"I was thinking--" John's breath hitches, rubbing his cock up into Rodney's stomach with the kind of impatience more suited to privacy than an isolation chamber-- "he might not want to see--"

"Then he'll go away and come back later." Much later, Rodney thinks, feverishly pushing up the scrub top and licking a stripe down the middle of John's chest.

"Yeah," John murmurs, pushing down the scrubs and lining them up. "Later."

"Later," Rodney agrees before finding John's mouth again, already rocking into the pleasure he knows is there, hands running over John's straining muscles. "Later," he repeats, mostly because he can't think of anything more appropriate. John feels too good to bother with *thinking*.

It's over slower than Rodney expects and a lot faster than he wants. Except that he's pretty sure as John's mouth wrenches away from his, gasping sharply, and his own muted grunt is bitten into the skin on John's neck, that it's only been a handful of moments since he climbed on top of John in the first place. He feels wrecked, breathing heavily, hands still moving restlessly over John, anywhere within reach.

"Oh god," John almost wheezes. "Rodney this is-- we--"

"Well gentlemen it'll be--- oh good *lord*." 

Jerking up both their scrubs, Rodney sits up, keeping a steadying hand on John's bare stomach and completely ignoring the wetness beneath his hand. "You could *knock*."

Carson stares at him like he's speaking a variation of English unknown to civilized man. "You did *not*--in my *infirmary*--"

Rodney waves his free hand while subtly working John's scrub top down. Just a little. "Never mind. If you could leave--"

"Rodney," John says, but not like he's disagreeing. Head turning, he smiles at Carson. "Find anything?"

Carson closes his eyes briefly, like maybe when he opens them, the scene will be different. Rodney takes the opportunity to adjust his own clothes and spot check John's decency. Not that scrubs cover all that much in the way of evidence. "Some heightened brain activity. From what you've told me of the--effects--" he stops, pointedly not looking at John's fingers wrapping around Rodney's wrist. "I can alleviate the worst of it, but I'm afraid that you'll just have to wait for the rest to fade from your system. Twenty-four hours at most. I'll recommend to Dr. Weir that you be put on leave until an examination in the morning." Staring at the wall above their heads, Carson nods blindly. "And you may leave. As soon as possible."

Rodney looks down to see John's mischievous grin, involuntarily sliding his hand up John's stomach, slick and slow.

"Dr. Weir will be expecting you for a post-mission briefing," Carson says, with deliberate malice. "Within a few minutes. Best you get dressed, gentleman, while I get your dose ready."

Rodney has a suspicious feeling that Carson really doesn't quite understand the depth and scope of these side affects he spoke so blithely about. He's mildly upset at the niggling feeling that maybe Carson thinks what he walked in on wasn't something completely out of their control. 

Mostly.

"See anythingto clean up with?" John asks, enfolding Rodney's stray hand in his own. "Our uniforms can only take so much abuse."

Carson reappeared at that very moment with a basin and a couple of washcloths, leaving his gift on the table and eyeing them, like he was making sure they didn't go at it again in the *four* seconds he was gone.

"Thanks," John says languidly, his post coital glow still shimmering.

Rodney nods his head as well, but Carson is already out the door again.

Turning to John, Rodney sees he's already got a damp cloth gliding over his stomach and Rodney has to help. He *has* to close his free hand over John's and move with it. John's skin takes to being cleaned, it glows under each careful swipe, and Rodney finds himself leaning in, kissing the fresh skin firmly.

"Rodney," John's voice holds a quiet hitch. "Getting dressed."

Reluctantly, they both dress, a slow, painful process involving the addition, rather than the removal, of clothing , and interspersed with quick, furtive touches. Sitting back on John's bed, both of them fully dressed, he wraps his fingers in John's t-shirt and gives Carson a glared dare to say a damn thing when he comes in with the needles.

"Now," Carson says, still eyeing them as if he expects orgies if he so much as blinks, taking out the needles with far too much enthusiasm. "Let's get you fixed up."

* * *

It's not nearly as bad as before, there's no nausea, and Rodney only feels the faintest feeling of disconnect, but it's very irritating, like the edge of a toothache, grating on the edge of Rodney's mind. Every time one of them shifts enough, it's still a conscious decision not to gravitate towards one another.

Elizabeth looks like she's trying very hard not to blush, or possibly giggle.

"So the planet was trying to--eat you?"

"Something was," John says, sounding so standard post-mission briefing that Rodney just wants to kick him. "We didn't exactly stick around to figure it out once we realized what was happening." Give or take an orgasm.

"And Carson--" she says, head tilting. Rodney realizes he's reaching for John's thigh again and stops himself.

"Dr. Beckett found a way to deal with the most-- distracting parts of the effects," John answers, sprawled casually in his chair, legs spread loosely.

Rodney still remembers those legs and that space and all the things he still really wants to do while there.

"And the planet?" Elizabeth says, mouth very straight, like they're discussing almost-broccoli production on the mainland.

"I wouldn't recommend a repeat visit," John says lazily, one foot nudging at Rodney's, head tilted, and Rodney notes that Elizabeth's eyes widen, flushing slightly. "Not without hazmat suits, anyway."

Elizabeth nods, jerking her gaze away from John, which is more than Rodney can manage. It's indecent. "Very well, gentleman," she says, and Rodney's eyes narrow when her gaze dips toward John's beltline. "You have the next twenty-four hours off. I'll expect your report tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," John says easily, getting up. Rodney watches the long stretch of his muscles and tries to breathe. "Rodney?"

Right. Climbing to his feet, Rodney bobbles a nodded agreement, trying not to look like he's completely unable to understand a single word Elizabeth is saying.

They're walking, and Rodney trusts that John has some idea of where they're going because keeping one foot in front of the other is tough enough. Carson managed a lot, and Rodney is grateful, but they're stuck waiting the rest out, and there's a time and distance factor working against them at that very moment.

In the transport tube, John strokes down his arm briefly when the doors close. Rodney's eyes try to cross but now he can breathe through it. Sort of.

Rodney finds himself following John into his room, not all that surprised because it's not like they can really separate and do anything but sit in miserable little balls. That is an experiment he doesn't want to repeat. So they might as well be-- comfortable.

The doors close and they're in each other's arms, and Rodney is holding tightly, and sighing deeply as something sweet and slow releases in his body. "John," he says nuzzling at John's neck, tracing the outlines of the various hickies with his nose.

"Yeah," John mutters, pulling back slightly to catch Rodney's eyes. "We need to talk." 

Those words have never, ever meant anything good. Rodney runs his nails down John's back through his shirt, covering John's mouth with his at his hiss and biting his lip. He's going to pay for this, but later, just one more time, feel John's hands on him like he can't get enough, pushing off his shirt with impatient hands, running up his spine and over his shoulders, gentle and hard at once, moaning when Rodney works his pants open and palms his cock.

The bed is only a few steps away, and Rodney gets John down on it, stretched out golden and perfect, stripping both their clothes with frantic hands, kissing away every word John tries to say, lining up cock against cock, shivering at the feel of all that perfect, naked skin.

"Rodney," John says, and Rodney bites down on a pink nipple, John's hands tightening in his hair. "Rodney, listen--"

"Later," he whispers into the smooth skin of John's stomach--he's so hard he aches, like he hasn't come three times already, like he hasn't come in years. The long thighs open for him easily, and Rodney ducks his head, biting into the silky skin of John's inner thigh.

"Right," John says, tilting his head back, eyes closing. "It's just--"

"I want you," Rodney says, and this is everything he couldn't do on the planet: luxuriate in John, skin and smell and taste, licking to the crease of his thigh; hearing John's stuttering breath when Rodney mouths his balls, pushes his legs farther apart and licking a finger, makes slow circles on the soft skin just behind, moving back. John makes an unclassifiable noise that barely sounds human. "I want you, shut up, shut up, let me--"

"It's just--Christ Rodney. I--haven't--" John arches when Rodney works a finger in, tight and hot around him, going down on John's cock at the same time and feeling the muscles in his ass jump. "Oh. Fuck. I haven't done--done this. God. Before."

Rodney wants to stop and look up, and he does, but it takes him long seconds to get his body under control enough to do so. "What?" he asks, out of breath.

"I haven't," John says just as out of breath, "done this before." His eyes are wide and dilated he licks his lips like he's searching for taste. "In fact I haven't actually done most of this," he waves his hand vaguely between the two of them. 

His finger twitches involuntarily, and John convulses around him, moaning. "What?" He asks again. "That porn star blow job was beginner's luck?" Rodney is already mouthing at the skin near John's cock, but he does wiggle his finger out just in case. "Oh god," he says looking back up into John's terrified eyes. "I really want you."

John sits up, his hand reaching out to touch Rodney's face, pull it closer, and kiss him slowly. "I've never wanted this before."

Oh God, that's so hot. Rodney closes his eyes tightly, kissing John again, shuddering into it. "Right," he says, wondering if he should say something else, but John doesn't seem to expect conversation, and thank God for that, because Rodney's vocabulary's just dropped substantially.

It's easy to rub against sweat slicked skin, suck John's tongue into his mouth, feel him arch up and quiver, finding that perfect rhythm that shouldn't be so familiar already, legs tangled, and then John pulls away, panting, eyes wide and as green as new leaves. Rodney cups his face and watches him come, wet and pulsing against Rodney's stomach, kissing him when his spine tightens, whispering John's name into his mouth.

* * *

Later, hours later, Rodney wakes to light peeking through the multicolored glass on the wall. Next to the bed are the remnants of the food and water Carson had so thoughtfully brought to them.

He'd knocked very loudly and announced his presence and then had the gall to look thoroughly unsurprised when it took them five minutes to answer the door looking like their clothes hadn't been on their backs for more than thirty seconds.

Rodney feels hungover as he turns to stare at John, still breathing deeply; he's draped over him like a limp rag and he's got to piss so badly he's afraid what might happen if John wakes up and does something that'll start it all over again.

He crawls out of bed, shivering at the loss of body heat, but too intent on getting to the bathroom to be distracted by it. He's come more in twelve hours than he had in the entire month leading up to his second doctorate.

When he comes back out, leaning into the doorway to watch John, boneless and pliant in bed, he realizes that he's not nauseous. Taking a step, Rodney stops, testing, but--no.. Want, yes, God, want yes, who wouldn't want to touch John? Need? No.

The sense of loss is almost staggering, and Rodney can't quite make himself move. He's not even sure he can breathe.

John shifts, rolling onto his stomach, sheet pulling down to reveal the curve of his ass, sighing a little before resettling--and when he wakes, he'll feel it too, no more of the overwhelming need. 

And that is something that Rodney's not sure he'll be able to stand seeing. 

Reaching for his boxers, he fumbles them on, he searches desperately for his pants, God, shirt, where? Boots, fuck them for hiding under the bed. 

"Rodney?"

Rodney freezes, looking up from his under bed groping, feeling like a deer in headlights, trapped by the barely open slits of John's eyes.

Closing his eyes again, John fumbles out a hand, brushing his shoulder. "Sleep," he murmurs, reaching down with his other hand to pull distractedly at the sheets. "We don't have to be up yet."

Rodney closes his eyes as John's fingers brush his jaw. "Colonel--"

"Rodney," John murmurs sluggishly, fingers dragging slowly down Rodney's neck. "What's up?"

He can't speak, only lean into the touch, discovering it again, without the uncontrollable need thrumming through his veins. Only, he can still feel it, the need and want, but he knows it's not the same; so he can only shrug, throat tight. Rodney can hear the bed shifting as John moves, sense the heat as John's legs swing over the side.

"Open your eyes Rodney."

Helplessly, Rodney opens his eyes, and sitting in front of him is a visual inventory of the damage they did to each other, red-black, purpling blue. John's tired eyes are still only half open and his hair is, if at all possible, standing up even more.

"What's up?" John asks again.

"Nothing," Rodney finally says. "I think we broke it." He tries not to sound as bitterly resentful as he feels. Because being under alien influence for mindblowing sex is bad, he thinks. Or so he's been told.

John laughs, ducking his down, hand still tracing some unknown pattern on Rodney's neck. "S'different now."

Rodney nods, dread coiling inside him. "Yeah, so I'll just be--"

"Can I--" John cuts him off, "Can I try this--" His hand strokes again, up Rodney's neck, down his jaw. Light and tentative. Soft. Trembling. "Once? Without the alien influence?"

Sitting up on his knees, Rodney pulls John into a kiss--maybe the last one, maybe the only real one, but it's the one he wants John to remember, slow and purposeful and not careful, not careful at all. John makes a small sound into his mouth and Rodney grabs for the edge of the bed with his free hand, dizzy with shock, the rush of feeling that has nothing to do with alien planets and their extremely unique way of trapping prey, and everything to do with John, who kisses back like they're still affected when they're anything but.

Oh.

"Oh," Rodney whispers against the wet lips, staring at John, who smirks back, lopsided and amused and--relieved? "Right. So--"

"Come back to bed," John says, and Rodney lets himself be coaxed up onto the mattress, curling around John, soft cock slipping naturally into the curve of his ass, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat on the back of his neck. 

"Okay," he whispers, closing his eyes.

Later, Rodney wakes for a second time, warm and relaxed, John is slowly stroking a nearby patch of skin. Rodney breathes deep and stretches, but not enough to dislodge the hand. John looks up at him, face naked and raw with something. Affection maybe? Awe, wonder, amusement-- it's all there and John keeps drawing lazy circles. Rodney reaches out for a kiss and they melt together, easily, slowly and it's perfect and sweet and warm and Rodney is fairly sure, this time it's all them.


End file.
